Fixed Sight
by Katla
Summary: Clint never did care much for Bruce Banner, even before he left the team without a word and broke Natasha's heart in the process. A chance encounter gives him the opportunity to give Bruce a piece of his mind. But when a few choice words turns into the longest conversation they've ever had, Clint is left wondering whether the problem is Bruce...or his own point of view.


**Fixed Sight**

* * *

 _Mechanical or fixed sight: One of the two main forms of aiming in archery._

* * *

The sands and dry heat of Morocco had definitely lost their lustre for Clint by the time the latest phase of the New Avengers' mission was over. The team had made it their business to sweep up all the Ultron tech that had mysteriously disappeared after the disaster in Sokovia, only to reappear on the black market. They'd managed to clean out this particular vendor and his clients, but this was the third time in the months since the incident in Sokovia that they'd been forced into a globe-trotting version of a wild goose chase. When he'd joined the Avengers, he hadn't anticipated so many endless scavenger hunts for bits of alien and sentient robotic tech. He really should've insisted on a contract: no incessant hunts for spare parts, definitely some more paid leave. Provisions for a full-on sabbatical would be nice…

He planned the details of his fictional contract as he made the drive from the secluded hotel where he and Natasha were crashing for the night into the city proper. He needed to pick up some souvenirs for the kids and Laura. He made a point of bringing them all something when he visited a new city, and this was the first time he'd been to Casablanca.

He hunted through tourist shops and local markets until he found some sufficiently impressive knick-knacks for the kids, even throwing in one for Nathaniel for when he was older. He snagged some decorative carvings and a postcard for Laura. It featured an assortment of photos of Casablanca's sights, even including a colorized still from the movie that had immortalized the city: Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, locked in an embrace that threatened to become a forbidden kiss. Laura wasn't much for classic movies or hopeless love stories — she was as practical and down-to-earth as they came — but she still appreciated combinations of beauty and romance. He'd never seen the movie himself.

Natasha had, but she'd still turned down his invitation to go into the city with him. Her reluctance stumped him; he knew for a fact that she liked the movie, given the number of conversations she'd had with Banner on the subject back in their Hydra-busting days.

That was probably _why_ she had turned him down, come to think of it.

Way to be sensitive, he reprimanded himself as he deposited his bags of souvenirs in the car. He locked it and spent a moment contemplating the dimly-lit street and brushing off his lingering concern over Natasha's emotional state. There wasn't anything he could do about it, after all. She knew she could talk to him about anything, and she frequently had in the past, but pushing her never did any good. This situation was different, anyway. She'd barely spoken about whatever had happened between her and Banner in all those months they'd hunted for Loki's scepter. Laura had caught on to the feelings brewing between them long before he had, but even she couldn't tell him how they'd started. Or what had caused the sudden break when Banner disappeared. He couldn't help if he didn't know what the hell was going on.

His mood was rapidly swinging south at the thought of Loki's mind-controlling scepter and the sadness that still lingered behind Natasha's smirk these days. It was officially time to get to the next important order of business — finding a decent drink in this town. Preferably away from the tourist traps.

He stopped at the first restaurant and bar combo that had a sign advertising American beer. Not exactly the most adventurous choice, but Nat's Arabic and French left his in the dust; since she wasn't along for the ride, he'd just have to keep it simple. That's all he wanted anyway, just a couple of beers after a really difficult day. Then he could go to sleep, they'd be out of here by morning, and by sundown tomorrow he'd be hugging the kids and giving them their presents. It was a to-do list that was actually doable, unlike the ones he often attempted at home. He froze all thoughts of the farm, of Laura and the kids, before the sensation of missing them could cut too deeply.

He stepped inside and was only mildly disappointed when he was met with a truly generic interior: scuffed wood floor, dingy booths around the walls, half-filled tables scattered along a low-ceilinged room that was much longer than it was wide. A surprising amount of cigarette smoke mingled with the steam from the kitchen to lend an over-warm haze to the room; the hanging lights turned the smoke a swirling gold.

Here for the beer, not the design, he reminded himself, but he did get a little judgmental when he noticed the sloppy craftsmanship of the wall paneling. He was too tired to think of how he would have done it better, so he plopped down on a stool at the end of the long, mostly empty bar, and avoided embarrassing himself trying to speak Arabic by pointing at the type of beer he wanted and holding up two fingers. The first sip was heavenly.

He was very much involved in the business of thinking about nothing at all when a voice speaking Arabic even worse than he did caught his ear from the booth in the farthest corner. The voice hesitated and switched into English instead.

"No, thanks."

The voice was familiar enough to send a shockwave through his head, but he didn't so much as flinch under its impact. A waitress was leaving the table with an empty plate and glass when Clint turned his head slowly to confirm what he already knew.

Bruce Banner was sitting just a few yards away. He looked thin and tired as he dug in his pocket for the money to cover his meal — and he hadn't seen him yet. Which meant that Clint had a handful of seconds to decide what to do.

He thought for just a moment about calling Natasha, but forcing the Incredible Hulk into a couples' therapy session in the middle of the biggest city in Morocco seemed like a bad move, he had to admit. Besides, it had been Banner's call to leave and it definitely wasn't his place to argue that point.

He had almost decided to leave the money for his beers on the bar and slip out before Banner could spot him, but as he stared at the bills in his hand, the image of Natasha's face right after the Sokovian debacle swam before his eyes. Her look had been distant and empty for days after Banner disappeared. She had only outlined the bare facts of what happened, but he knew heartbreak when he saw it, even if that had been his first experience with seeing it on her face.

Anger flared in his gut like an open flame, and he gave himself the space of a few seconds to breathe and let the fire burn out before he decided to do anything. Natasha had accused him before of going off like a half-cocked older brother, and he was guilty, he knew. She wouldn't appreciate him doing anything stupid. Neither would Laura, for that matter.

 _So don't do anything stupid_ , he told himself, and stood. He could avoid that and still give Banner a piece of his mind, he was sure. What he _couldn't_ do was walk away from the man who had hurt a good friend without saying anything. He left his money on the bar and brought his beer with him when he dropped into the seat opposite Bruce.

"Banner," he greeted with perfect, deadpan politeness. "Long time, no see."

Bruce froze, swallowed, and very carefully lifted his eyes to Clint's. It was a wary look, but not a terribly surprised one. He must have expected someone to find him eventually. Banner's first question confirmed it: "Are you alone?"

His eyes scanned the room quickly and efficiently, and Clint saw his shoulders relax when he came to the correct conclusion that there wasn't a team closing in on him. He probably should have been offended by the fact that Bruce thought it was possible he was heading up some kind of extraction team. But they'd never known each other all that well, so he decided against holding any more grudges than he'd come in with.

"It's only me," Clint confirmed. "Just finished up a mission, and I came in here for a beer. I didn't notice that there were tearful reunions on the menu."

Bruce's lips twitched into a sarcastic half-smile that Clint recognized — it was a look that Natasha often wore.

"Of all the gin joints in all the world," Bruce muttered, and his laugh was almost a sigh. "So that's what this is? A tearful reunion?"

Clint took a long pull from his beer, feeling a little pleasure at making Bruce wait in uncertainty. He'd certainly made Natasha wait long enough.

"I guess I just want to know what the hell you're doing," he answered at last, his eyes following a bead of condensation down the bottle in his hand before rising to meet Bruce's gaze.

"What do you mean?" Bruce asked, but the clench of his jaw muscle gave him away. He knew exactly what Clint meant. But since he was determined to be difficult, Clint spelled it out for him.

"Leaving the team. Leaving Nat."

Bruce was stoic through the first few words, but his flinch was palpable when Clint said Natasha's name. Good — he deserved it.

"I couldn't stay," Bruce offered with an air of explanation. As though that explained anything.

"Obviously," Clint agreed and didn't bother to cover his sarcasm. "So this is what you do?" He gestured around the bar, at the smoke above and the dirty floor below, at the coins glittering coldly in the dim light, at Bruce sitting hunched and tired and alone. "You just…run."

"Actually," Bruce said in a voice so tight that Clint suspected his teeth were clenched, "Yeah."

Clint shook his head and took another sip from his half-empty bottle. He'd never understood why Natasha decided that liking this guy was a good idea. Of course, a lot of people had said similar things to Laura back before they were married, but that was different, of course. He might have been wilder in his youth, but at least he had a backbone. At least he didn't cut and run when things got hard.

Bruce looked very un-Hulk-like slumped against his seat, making what little height he had look even less substantial. His shoulders curved in almost protectively, and Clint couldn't see his hands, but he guessed from the rigid set of his shoulders that they were balled into fists. Clint wondered, not for the first time, whether what Nat felt for Banner was actually just an advanced form of pity.

Regardless, he knew she would want to talk to him. So he owed it to her to try and make that happen.

"Nat's outside the city," he said, just casually enough to be a little cruel. He couldn't haul off and punch Bruce for causing Natasha pain — and Natasha would probably punch _him_ if he tried anything of the sort on her behalf — but he could dole out a little pain of the mental variety. Bruce stiffened.

"She doesn't know you're here," Clint continued. It would have been an act of mercy to pause when Bruce flinched, but Clint wasn't feeling merciful. "I could call her and she could be here in a few minutes."

Bruce's face contracted like a single muscle straining for control. After a moment, he shook his head.

Clint blew out a frustrated breath. "So you're just going to let her leave without talking to her. You're going to sit here and let her feel whatever it is she's feeling without making any effort to fix it." He mirrored Bruce's head shake. "You're a son of a bitch, Banner."

Bruce didn't protest or make any attempt to argue. His lips curved into the ghost of a bitter smile — like he _agreed_. Clint had always been irritated by people who wouldn't fight back when someone came at them. He felt a flash of renewed anger when Bruce sat quietly and had the nerve to look miserable as he absorbed Clint's words. He took it like a man receiving his just deserts.

He had no business looking so damn tragic over something he could change.

"Why don't you fix it?" he demanded despite his own better judgment. If Banner was so dead set on being a idiot, there wasn't anything he could do about it. But his half-assed words seemed to have struck a chord at last; Bruce finally held his gaze, and there was just a hint of anger behind his eyes.

"Natasha —" Bruce winced around her name "— has every right to be angry, but I don't have to explain myself to you. If you're going to call her, then do it. I'm leaving either way."

"Like hell you are —" Clint started, but Bruce cut in with a quiet tone that was made of pure steel.

"I'm trying very hard not to be angry, but you're making it difficult. Are we done? I'd like not to kill anyone today."

Clint might've been imagining things, but he thought he detected a passing flash of green in Banner's eyes. He resigned himself to backing off. Better safe than sorry, especially in the case of mutated scientists with anger problems who your best friend was probably in love with.

Just for once, he thought, it would be nice if his life got less weird instead of more.

He shrugged off the tension of the moment and subsided against his seat, taking his beer with him. Neither of them disturbed the silence for a few lengthy moments, and Bruce studied the patrons and waitstaff that drifted around them. His obvious unease dwindled when no one took any notice of the two of them. He was used to his anger being more of an event, Clint supposed. But that was the thing about emotions: they didn't make any damn difference. It was the choices they inspired that really mattered.

He noted the tension leaving Bruce's shoulders and, after a moment, he felt safe enough to add, "That's your problem, Banner. Not all emotions should be controlled. Some can't be."

Bruce gave a laugh that was harsh enough to send a chill crawling up Clint's spine. "You're wrong," he said in a flat voice. "Trust me."

His tone was as cold and airless as a vacuum and it sucked the warmth out of Clint even across the distance between them. He could almost feel Bruce's exhaustion seeping through his skin to take its place.

"You love her, right?" Clint asked, and his voice was tired, even in his own ears.

Bruce paused for such a long time that he was on the verge of repeating the question when Bruce finally gave a single shake of his head. But when he spoke he said, 'Yes." The shrug that accompanied the words clearly added _but what does it matter?_

"Then what are you doing, man?" Clint tried and failed to hold back his wave of exasperation.

Across from him, Bruce looked equally frustrated. "I don't expect you to understand —"

"Understand what? The fact that you're making both your lives more miserable than they have to be?"

The anger flared distantly in Bruce's eyes again, and Clint barely had time to regret stirring the pot before it boiled over.

"Don't tell me about what my life has to be," Bruce said in a tight, low voice. Clint realized that he had a voice that became more intimidating through less volume and not more. "I don't expect you to understand because you _can't_. You don't have to worry about killing your wife, your kids..."

His voice faded and when he spoke again it was nearly as distant as his expression. "I wanted your life. I was going to have that life once upon a time. But it all went to hell because of _me_."

Bitterness was woven inextricably with sadness in his tone, a poisonous mixture that felt toxic even from a distance. Clint wasn't sure how Bruce managed to survive in the middle of it.

"If you think that choosing to let Natasha into this life — if you can call it that — would be doing her any favors, then you really haven't been paying attention, Agent Barton. Yes, I love her. And that's exactly why I have no desire to pull her into any of this."

He sat back against the cushioned booth and seemed to shrink back inside his skin. The anger in his eyes flickered and died until it was something infinitely colder.

"People like you can't understand people like me," he said, and his voice was so tired that Clint's teeth ached.

"Is that a crack about my IQ?" Clint muttered without conviction, not sure whether he was joking. Banner was so draining to talk to this way. His misery was a wound that bled everybody around it dry.

"No," Bruce clarified, no trace of condescension in his lifeless tone. "People who have everything can't understand people who have nothing. They have no basis for comparison." Bruce's eyes flicked up to meet his again. "So stop comparing."

Clint thought back to Bruce's uneasy expression when Lila and Cooper came bounding into the living room for hugs so many months ago, remembered his closed posture and the sparse handful of words he'd spoken during the Avengers' time at the farm, and he recognized distantly that he might have a point.

It had been quite some time since he'd looked at the SHIELD file labeled "Banner, Dr. Robert Bruce," but he still remembered a few of the more colorful details. Some of them had been enough to set his teeth on edge, and to send him to his phone to make a video call home a little earlier than usual that night. The file had held the story of a little boy who witnessed his mother's murder at his father's hands at an age far too young to confront death, let alone so brutally. The boy became a successful man despite it all, until an accident sent him running off into the dark corners of the world, forever hunted and labeled as a monster. The accident, if he remembered correctly, hadn't even been his fault.

One other file had turned Clint's stomach in a similar fashion, a file that had also been full to the brim of dark childhood secrets and experiments and monsters. That file had been labeled "Romanova, Natalia Alianovna." When Clint had looked in her eyes for the first time, he'd decided that the file might've gotten the facts right, but it had missed the mark when it came to the concluding sentence:

 _Authorization: Kill on Sight._

Banner's file contained a similar note but with the caveat that deadly force would likely have no effect. He had joked with some of his fellow agents at the time. "I think the words they were looking for were 'run like hell.'"

Natasha hadn't laughed.

In all his years with SHIELD, he'd seen a lot of messed up shit, but theirs were the only two files that read like real-life horror stories, equal parts psychological trauma and gore. All that was missing were ghosts and revenge from beyond the grave. Although, from Natasha's rare stories, ghosts weren't always spirits. They were memories and voices she couldn't erase from her head. He glanced at Bruce and thought that there were a few ghosts lingering behind his eyes as well.

Maybe it _wasn't_ so strange that she felt something for this guy.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't understand," Clint conceded at last. "But Natasha could?" he asked, and his curiosity was real.

Bruce's hands were pressed against the edge of the table now, but he uncurled one fist and stared at his open palm for a moment. He blinked, closed his fist, and answered.

"To an extent." He shrugged and his suddenly vulnerable look frosted over. "As much as anybody can understand anybody else," he continued, his manner half-hearted and weary. "We're all locked in our own brains. You can only ever see what you are. The cost of seeing past that, of being someone else, is ugly."

For just a moment, Clint was back in the ice of Sokovia, with the roar of the Hulk shaking the snow from the trees. He felt something that might have been the start of pity.

But Bruce's words left the land of the abstract and came painfully back to earth when his eyes met Clint's again. "You understand _that_ , I would imagine."

The haze of smoke and steam around them was suddenly stifling against Clint's skin. It stuck in his throat when he tried to breathe, tried _not_ to hear Loki's smooth and venomous voice in his head. He didn't like to think about anything to do with his time as Loki's marionette, so he pushed right past it to add, "Nat understood that, too."

Bruce's flinch was less pronounced this time. "Yeah," he agreed absently, his eyes unfocusing just a little. "Even if her monsters aren't quite the same as mine."

"We've all got monsters, Banner."

Bruce's nod shifted seamlessly into a muted shake of disagreement. Clint barely had time to wonder how someone could be so divided before Bruce had added, "She can't be forced into facing them."

Clint had found a decent foothold in this conversation at last.

"Is that what this is about? Her pushing you?"

Bruce's eyes refocused squarely on Clint's face. "What?" he asked, blinking in confusion.

"She told me about forcing your transformation. Is that what this is? You can't let it go? I don't know if you're aware of this, being the aggressively alone type, but forgiveness is an essential skill in, you know, _relationships._ It's a choice, Banner."

"And a skill that requires practice," Bruce added with another of his unnerving smiles, this one resigned and coldly knowing.

Clint had only seen Banner as one half of the team's geek squad for so long, and associated him with annoyingly abstract thought, unintelligible briefings, and tiny smiles that, in hindsight, had been reserved for Tony and Natasha. This harder, icy version of Bruce Banner was…

Well, if he was honest, he was a little scary.

"But no, that's not it," Bruce continued, his face thawing, just a little. "I was never angry with her about that. She was just doing what she does best — seeing more than anybody else and saving the world along the way." His smile grew warmer very briefly before that, too, died. "How could I be angry?" he continued quietly.

Clint wondered if Banner was even talking to him anymore or if he was just using his presence to say things he'd been holding in for far too long.

Bruce blinked away his thoughts and his face contracted in a frown. "She thinks I left because I'm angry?" he asked, and Clint heard his sudden concern.

The waitress' steps surfaced out of the background clatter of plates and silverware and the hum of upbeat voices that hid their much less pleasant tones. He waved her off with a hastily manufactured smile when Bruce's stricken look indicated he wouldn't be handling it.

"I —' _don't know_ , he would have finished — it wasn't as though he and Nat sat around and talked about feelings all day — but Bruce interrupted.

"Tell her that I'm not. Please. Tell her I could never be," Bruce asked, and the earnestness in his voice made something in Clint's chest go tight.

 _You're an idiot, Banner_ , he thought, but the heat of his anger had all but faded.

"That sounds like something you should tell her yourself," he said instead, and since he couldn't quite manage kindness to the man responsible for Natasha's pain, he settled for being bland.

"You're probably right," Bruce conceded, finally glancing down to check that the change he'd left on the table was correct. He nodded to himself when it was and shoved his wallet into the pocket of his oversized jacket. "But I can't," he concluded, and his voice was heavy with certainty.

"For the love of God," Clint muttered, plenty loud enough to be heard, "Why not?"

Bruce stood. "If I talk to her, I'll change my mind," he said, his face blank, one hand still deep in his pocket. His expression flickered as he pulled it out again. He had something clutched between his fingers.

"Here," he thrust the object, a half-crumpled postcard, Clint realized, in his direction. "Will you give her this for me?"

Part of him wanted to say something derisive and walk right out of the bar. Another part of him thought about the postcard in his car for Laura. It was that thought that lingered and settled into a dull ache that he couldn't shake off. It wasn't a sensation he cared for. Why did Banner have to make everything so damn difficult? He settled on declining with a joke — always an acceptable middle ground.

"I'm not sure I want to explain to her that I saw you and didn't call her immediately," he started, studying the last sip or so of beer that was left in his bottle. "My remains would never be found."

Bruce took it well, nodding and even flashing a tired half-smile.

"I'll send it," he said, and slid it back into his pocket. He glanced toward the door.

Clint hauled himself to his feet, feeling suddenly cold at the thought of Bruce walking through the door with that look of defeat on his face and only angry words ringing in his ears. He'd always had a soft spot for people who were so obviously lost.

Or maybe something about Bruce's gaze, equal parts pain and the bitterest cold, reminded him of Nat.

He stepped between Bruce and the door, temporarily blocking his escape route. Bruce paused expectantly, but didn't meet his eyes.

"Look, Banner, for whatever it's worth, you were part of the team and we could still use you. And as for you and Nat, I have no business giving my blessing or warning you off or whatever, but I will say this: she thought that what you guys had could work. I've never seen that from her before. And she's never wrong."

"Maybe she's not," Bruce said quietly, with one of his peculiar nods that meant the opposite of what the gesture usually communicated. His voice dropped almost to a whisper when he added, "But I always am."

Clint was working up to a sigh of truly epic proportions when Bruce unexpectedly stuck out his right hand. Clint was so surprised that he shook it. Bruce's grip was firm, but brief.

"Goodbye, Clint. And thanks."

Clint blinked. "For what? Chewing you out?"

"For not telling anyone that you found me."

Well someone was presumptuous. Or else he was getting too transparent in his old age.

"Who says I won't?" Clint countered, but his heart wasn't in the sarcasm.

Bruce shrugged, pulled on a baseball cap and shuffled toward the door, already fading into invisibility. It was one of his more impressive skills, Clint had to admit. He looked painfully contained and impossibly alone as he pushed through the door to the street.

On a whim, Clint called, "See you around."

He wasn't sure if Bruce heard him over the hum of conversation around them; he didn't reply or look back. Bruce Banner disappeared into the flow of foot traffic on the street outside before the door swung shut.

"Good luck," Clint added, and realized that he meant it.

He left his empty bottle on Bruce's table and headed back to his car. He felt an odd heaviness as he settled into his seat and looked at the bags of souvenirs nestled safely in the floorboard. For the space of a second, he wished he had taken the postcard for Nat.

But the second passed and he shifted the car into gear and left the city behind him. The sparkling lights of the entertainment districts fell into the darkness and silence of the desert as he finally neared the hotel. It was gloomier than the thick darkness of a night on the farm, but it had the same breathtaking view of the stars.

He saw Nat on the roof of the rundown two-story hotel as he pulled up to park. She never could resist a good view.

For a moment he indulged the thought that he should have dragged Bruce out here to talk to Nat, or should've called her and told her to get her ass to the bar. But he didn't indulge for long. They were adults who could handle their own messes. And every mess had two sides, neither of which was his, half-cocked brother or not. He couldn't fix things on either end. Bruce might not have contacted Nat, but he was pretty sure she hadn't tried to contact him either.

He looked up at her silhouette, a blacker shadow against the black, star-spattered sky, and noted the tiny slump of her shoulders. It matched the mournful angle of Bruce's shoulders in the bar.

Idiots, the both of them. He couldn't clean up their mess.

But he reached for the souvenirs, thought of the two darkest files he'd ever read, and for just a moment, he wished he could.

* * *

 _Please review!_


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